2 Protection

Marcus strained deep breaths through his mask. The air was hot and heavy from the sheer amount of people dancing with reckless abandon in front of him. So many bodies bobbing up and down, swaying left and right. Music boomed all around him, shaking his bones when the bass beats blew up. Everything felt suffocating, almost overwhelming, but he wouldn't have had it any other way. He felt happy right now. No, more than happy. He felt alive – with purpose in a society that had given him very little.

Nodding his head, Marcus did what he did best – mix music. DJ'ing for the Dime, one of the smaller, seedier night clubs in the Projects hadn't been glamorous, but it was what he could afford to do as a high-school senior with very little to his name.

And he was good at it.

There were so many people here packed into the tiny, checkerboard themed dancefloor of the Dime, and they were all here for him. Or rather, his alter ego. His masked DJ persona. Mr. Million, he called himself – not a creative name, by any means, but he figured his last name was already unique enough – and people loved him.

Marcus looked at the crowd below him, twisting and turning to the beat of the music, to the flow of his fingertips as he mixed and mashed sounds. All Alters. There were some with glowing eyes, others with horns, some with small wings.

How many of these Alters would have respected him if they'd known he wasn't one of them? An anomaly. An imperfection. A remnant of a past where humans didn't fly or shoot lasers or read minds. But none of that mattered right now, and that was what he loved.

Up here, in the DJ booth, he had worth. He had power. He couldn't get this kind of validation anywhere else. Athletics were dominated with Alters that had powers in that area. Academia, too. Every single job out there wanted Alters suited to it, and Marcus had nothing.

But music was universal. Because, regardless of whether an Alter had horns or wings, they were still humans at heart, and the human heart loved music. You didn't need fancy powers to understand music, to know its flow.

When the clock struck three hours past midnight, as the night cloyed blackest, the Dime closed, and Marcus finally enjoyed a break. He sifted through the dancefloor. The floor was sticky from spilled drinks and general debauchery, and when he took a seat at the empty bar, he exhaled, slumping over.

He tugged at his collar. His white suit was absolutely drenched in his sweat. Again, he regretted making a white suit part of his Mr. Million persona. He figured he could ditch it pretty well, honestly. The most iconic thing about him was his mask. It stood out with its neon blue LED light display that took the shape of a minimalistic, emoticon-esque face. So long as he kept his mask the same, he could probably afford to switch the suit out.

But he never did, because he was a stickler for principle.

"How's the up and rising star doing?"

Marcus took a glance back and smiled under his mask. It was Sana. She operated everything tech-related. Sound system, synthesizer for music, even Marcus's mask. A co-worker and his closest friend. She'd been with him since the start of highschool, and she was the one to get him into this whole DJ business, backing him from the shadows all the way.

"Could be doing a lot better if you made this thing a little more breathable," said Marcus.

Marcus undid the clasps of his mask and peeled it off his face. His hair, normally wiry and tough, had matted with sweat, turning into a golden mop. The air in the club had gotten surprisingly cold now that it was empty and the AC was still at full blast. He laid the mask gently down on the scratch-filled bar counter. The glowing face on the mask died down, its large, cross-shaped blue eyes fading away.

Sana tippy-toed to get on a seat next to Marcus.

"I've always offered to give that thing a few upgrades," she said, tracing a slender finger across the mask. "But you never end up wanting it changed, so you should stop complaining." She tucked her messy black curls behind her ear and looked the mask up and down. "A shame, too, because now that my powers developed more, I could really give make this thing better."

Marcus reached out and drew the mask close to him. "I like to keep things old school."

"Old school suits you," she said.

"Definitely not you, though," said Marcus, jutting his chin at Sana's coat.

A trendy denim coat colored a light, sky-blue that complemented her chocolate shade skin well. But what stood out most was the lights interwoven underneath the cloth that blinked and danced in a futuristic neon lightshow in the dark of the club.

Her own invention.

A product of her Alter powers. She was what the Alterhuman Agency classified as a Psionic with a sub-category as a Creator.

Psionics wielded powers that utilized their minds – super intelligent individuals, telekinetics and telepaths were the most well known and common among them – but the Creator subcategory applied to Psionics who focused on inventing, or, as their classification would indicate, creating advanced tech.

"Techno-Fashion's definitely my style, yeah," she said. She looked down at the counter and picked at a scar in the cheap varnishing, the denim wreathing her arm glittering and pulsating with neon splendor. "Keeps my mind focused. Have to always be innovating and tinkering to keep up with new trends. But with how thing's are going, I feel like everyone could slow down and use a little bit of old school."

Marcus nodded, and the two shared a mutual reflective episode in quiet of the club, a silence magnified by the afterglow of the wild night. It always felt like the quietest silences followed the loudest nights.

Things hadn't been smooth lately.

The Projects had started to act up lately. Not that the Projects were ever clean – it'd always been the pat of Sunsky hidden from public view, the underbelly of the perfect city, the dirty splotch that cultured crime and violence. But things were getting worse.

When Tai retiring as both the president of the Alterhuman Agency and the number one Mask five years ago, the agency entered a period of instability fraught with internal politics clashes. Without oversight, gangs were starting to really bare their fangs now, and areas already seeped in violence like the Projects were ground zero for turf wars.

It'd already been a year since the owner of the Dime had to accept 'protection' from the Devilrats to fend off gangs. Ironically, the Devilrats were also a gang, albeit one of the smaller ones plaguing the Projects. Their protection entailing the gang taking a fat bite off the Dime's profits and also making it a hotbed to sell drugs – not a great deal.

Marcus couldn't say he liked how things were, but if it let him keep at his music, then he tolerated it. If there was one thing Marcus had learned growing up in the Projects and as a non-Alter, it was tolerance.

"Could be worse. I hear Chicago's under martial law right now," said Marcus.

"Could be worse is the best mindset to let the worst happen," said Sana.

"Well, what can we do? I've got shit for powers. The best I can do is let things pass.'' Marcus felt his voice rising, and he immediately took in a calming breath.

Sana reached out and a put her hand over his.

Marcus sighed. "Sorry."

Sana shook her head. "You don't have to be. I understand. The Projects are our home. A rackety one, sure, full of refugees, immigrants, and the want-nots in general, but still home. It's understandable to want to protect it."

Marcus looked at her. He met her eyes black like charcoal and underlined with dark bags. His gaze traced the elegant slopes of her features, exploring a canvas that had smitten him since he had first met her. He wanted then to tell her that he wasn't angry because he couldn't protect the Projects. He could care less about the streets that had tossed him aide.

No, what he wanted to protect was her, to keep the only person who had stuck with him safe, to pay her back for all she had done for him, all she had put up for him. It wasn't easy for an Alter to get to know a regular human, much less befriend one.

"Yeah, home." Marcus tore his gaze from Sana and looked down at the counter again. "That's it."

Sana drew a little closer, brows furrowed. "Something wrong?"

Marcus opened his mouth, but the truth caught in his throat. "Nothing," was the lie he could muster out.

Three knocks echoed with a dull timbre throughout the empty club. These were knocks strong and stern. They didn't ask to be let in: they were a warning.

Marcus and Sana reacted with a quickness borne from living in rough streets. They left their seats and tensed up as the door broke down, its rusted hinges tearing off with sharp clacks.

Men streamed in. Roughshod lot that oozed streetrat with all of them dressed in tanktops layered with jackets emblazoned with fire-shaped emblems. At first glance, they could probably have passed for a metal band. But their posture, threatening and confident, made it unmistakable that they were low-lives.

"Another good show, Mr. Million." One of the men stepped forwards, golden chains clattering at his sinewy neck. His small, beady, porcine eyes scanned the club, latching onto Marcus and Sana. He grinned, all his teeth grilled and flashing with gold. "Considering how much of a crowd you always pull in, I do have to wonder why the Dime defaults on their dues."

"Because you overcharge up the ass, Carlos," snapped Sana. "When we make more, you charge more."

Carlos shrugged. "That's how business simply is these days. Competition is tough, and guns and drugs don't pay for themselves."

Marcus stepped in front of Sana. "What do you want? You know this joint doesn't have the cash to pay you upfront, so you're obviously here for something else."

"Well, Mr. Million, I'm here for you."

"Excuse me?"

Carlos motioned to his men, and they stood guard by the club door. A few others circled around Marcus. The atmosphere tensed up, and Marcus balled his hands into fists. Sana's eyes narrowed, growing feral.

"I'm a big fan," said Carlos. "And I truly do think you deserve a better stage than the Dime. When we first held business with this club, we didn't expect much out of it. But it birthed you, Mr. Million, a golden goose beyond our imagination. I hear Ace Records has already offered to sign you?"

"What about it," Marcus said through clenched jaw.

"That's a million-dollar deal!" exclaimed Carlos with mock excitement. "Million-dollar deal for Mr. Million. Fitting, yeah? But honestly, we're familia, aren't we? If it weren't for the Devilrats, you wouldn't even have had a club to show off on. Mr. Million would have been just another poor artist or rapper trying to make it big. A little fish in a sea of sharks."

"No." Marcus knew where this was going, and he didn't like it a single bit. Ace Records was a big name in the music industry, and he wasn't going to let their offer slide. It was his chance to get out of this crime infested shithole and make it big. He could pull Sana out with him, give her all the happiness she deserved.

"I figured you'd say that." Carlos shrugged, and three of his men strode forwards. "Perhaps a little convincing is in order."

"You're not going to touch him." Sana reached into her jacket sleeve and brandished what looked like a silver pen, except its tip was flatter and broader, capped with a black lens. "One more step and you're ending up with a hole in your head."

The men stopped unsure, but they readied to fight. One of them started to grow, his musculature rippling out explosively, tearing his tanktop and shirt apart. Another started to glow a little, radiating a dangerous heat. And the third manifested scales on his skin, his pupils narrowing to slits.

Carlos pointed to one of the men at the door. "Chang, tell me what that is, would you."

The guard pulled down a pair of shades to reveal grey eyes ringed with red. He stared at Sana's trinket and nodded.

"Laser. She's not lying. It's powerful enough to bore a hole through most of us. Boss, you should handle it."

Carlos gave a slow nod. "I didn't want to make things…difficult, but if that's how it'll be." He rolled his shoulders, waving his men behind him. "Then I'm all for it."

"I'm not playing around," said Sana as she eyed Carlos approaching. "Get closer, and you'll have more holes in you than a block of swiss cheese."

Carlos stopped for a second.

Marcus could almost reach out to touch Carlos now, but what could he do? If Carlos had any useful power, then anything Marcus could do didn't matter, and there was no way in hell that the head of a gang didn't have an useful power. It's probably how he reached the top in the first place. He thought about tackling Carlos, telling Sana to run, but he knew she wouldn't.

Carlos lunged forwards, past Marcus and towards Sana. She didn't waste any time before she reacted.

A flash of cyan erupted from her laser pointer and a streak of bright blue shot forwards, slamming into Carlos's chest. But instead of drilling through him in a super-heated burst, the laser reflected back, cutting straight through Sana's stomach.

She dropped her pointer and staggered back, hand clutched at her stomach. Red flowered from the wound, drenching her denim black.

Marcus reacted with white-hot rage, grabbing Carlos and tossing him back. Surprisingly, the gang boss let himself be thrown back, and Marcus ran to Sana's side, holding her in his arms.

Her breaths were shallow, eyes unblinking and wide.

"Stomach wound," said Carlos as he patted his jacket. "Nasty thing, those are. I hear it's constant pain, all those acids in the gut just pouring out and ruining everything."

Marcus didn't listen to Carlos. He kept his attention on Sana, at her paling face. His hands trembled as he held her. What did he do? What could he do? Once more, he felt that familiar powerlessness. He could try and take her to the hospital, but Carlos's men would stop him. He could shout for help, but this was the Projects – nobody would come. People were too smart for that.

There was nothing he could do. And he hated that.

Carlos strolled up to Marcus and put a hand on his shoulder. "Seems you've taken a liking to this girl. But you could have so much better working with us." He leaned forward, his face near Marcus's, ready to whisper some sweet nothings.

Marcus could see his golden grin, the utter lack of human empathy it held, and he couldn't stop himself.

For a moment, it felt good to wring his hands around Carlos's neck, to put all the strength he had into crushing the life out of the piece of filth.

But it was just a moment. Just a moment of vengeance before the roar of gunfire echoed out and blacked Marcus's vision out with an unfeeling stamp.